


Thorns

by bowblade



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowblade/pseuds/bowblade
Summary: Sometime after Overwatch disbands, Angela runs into Moira at a party. Moira makes her a promise.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a very moicy mood and i really like angst, what more can i say

"I don't have to listen to you."

"Ah," her counterpart exhales, the single syllable as soft as a caress. A stray finger curls beneath her chin, not quite making contact. "But you're going to, aren't you?"

She hates this.

Angela squirms at the declaration and its _certainty_ , her arms held all the tighter against her chest. She's backed against a wall of hard light she wishes would just unmake, but the truth is she could easily walk away from this, back to mingling and safety; she hasn't. Hadn't. Deep down, she knows that she won't.

Moira knows too. Either she can see the inner-workings of her mind as Angela realises it for herself or it's just that obvious, terribly so. The gala she excused herself from is at the end of the dark corridor, drifting voices indistinct and still within reach. She's not trapped here. She's no prisoner, but here she's stayed, making herself as small as possible, the victim to the terribly tall predator leaning over her now, wrongly painting her at fault.

No. Angela was the right one. The one that felt betrayed and that last goodbye had been final, an unspoken promise to never see her again, to not feel so—

Her heart aches, her chest too tight, her ribs crushing her. She might as well be a mangled experiment, carelessly discarded and thrown away, not needed anymore. 

The feeling is still the same as it was that day, and Angela hates that the most.

Moira has the audacity to chuckle and Angela's eyes snap to her, anger caught on the tip of her tongue.

"No."

"Angela—"

" _No._ "

How dare she come back into her life after all she did, after all she had taken and corrupted, after all the lies she told, and expect her to take her at her word?

She doesn't _deserve_ to be listened to.

She had been a comfort, a colleague, a friend through it all, and then—

She should have seen it, in hindsight. She had been the fool to trust her to begin with, the figure in the dark.

"Angela," Moira sighs, exasperated, and it's a new thing to hate, how much she missed hearing her say her name, when so many now don't with Overwatch gone. Moira's hand drops as she retreats, enough to give her space – and a free run back to the party they're both presently absent from. "Don't lie."

Her words have been enough, and Moira knows it. There's no reason to corner her now. Of course the eminent, radiant Doctor Ziegler will stay; ironic as it is, she is utterly at her mercy right now.

And mercy is for the weak.

Angela shuffles, her knuckles white against exposed elbows as she lessens her grip. She can't quite make Moira's features out like this, not in the semi-dark, but she can imagine the memorised lines, the mismatched eyes and hair on fire, and that satisfied, argument-won smile. 

She would be naïve if she were to think that this is anything but a game to her. 

It hurts. She hates that she cares.

She hates that she _wants_ to know, her stupid sureness that this has to be more than just a scheme, else Moira would not have followed her out here when she saw her across the room, jovial and uncaring as to what became of those in her wake. Or was that exactly it? She would be inviting ruin, willingly. Had she learned nothing?

But it's too late. It doesn't matter anymore.

She has to hear it.

Angela resolves not to give Moira the gratification of a scowl at least, nor an acknowledgement beyond a brief flick of her head as she looks away again, her periphery trained to Moira's collarbone, determined not to catch her eye or expression again.

"Then get on with it," she says, words full of ire. "Whatever you have to say."

For all her confidence and expected trickery Moira doesn't say anything immediately, perhaps surprised that, in the end, she somewhat harmoniously agreed. She vocalises a soft 'hmm', the sound reverberating through her bones. Deliberating.

It reminds Angela of days and nights spent in the lab, of progress and research, of discovery and application, of where across her neck and shoulders she might choose to kiss her.

She makes a mental note to go without sleeveless dresses for formal occasions in the future.

"How have you been, since the disbandment? Have you been working alone?"

"For the most part, yes," she says curtly to Moira's shoulder. What is it to her? Angela almost asks, but she doesn't know if she wants to hear that answer. She's done offering chances for Moira to explain herself. "Wherever I am needed, I go."

"And the world needs you a great deal," Moira drawls. It's said with confidence, not supposition; likely, she already knows, has been watching from the shadowy light of Oasis and the reach her position in the ministries has given her. "You could join us, you know. There would be a place for you in Oasis… a place where your greatest potential might be reached. It would be a shame for your talents to go to waste."

She wants to mould her. To temper her to be used again.

Never. Never again.

"I want nothing to do with your work, or you."

Moira's work is unethical, wrong, but it needn't be. The anger, the _gall_ at her daring to even ask such a thing, makes Angela all the more resolute to deny it, to deny _her_ , and she looks to Moira's face again to better show it.

Instantly she knows it's a mistake.

Moira's expression is unreadable, stoic. Even after all this time it's one Angela recognises, the emptiness perhaps her most expressive look.

Did she really, _truly_ think she would _ever_ consider—

Moira clears her throat, dousing whatever else Angela contemplates saying.

"Angela," her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "I told you not to lie."

Tears prick against the corner of her eyes as Angela lets out a scoff of laughter in disbelief, but it sounds more despairing than callous.

"Don't presume to know me. You gave that up."

Gave her up.

"In a lifetime of choices and advancements—" 

Moira pauses. There's a trace of something beneath her words, a lingering sentiment. Regret, perhaps, but that's not a language the former Blackwatch agent speaks. 

Something within Angela falters, but it's just as quickly carried away. She's looking for reasons that don't exist. Putting her own spin on things. Its why she never wanted to be having this altercation, however inevitable with their shared field of work. 

Moira sees Angela looking, scrutinising, and she shakes her head. "Ah, but it doesn't matter now. We are not going to agree, as before. Your principles will not align with mine. But there is one thing you should know."

Her usual tone was back. Whatever else she was to say would be unwanted, unkind.

Again she reaches out to Angela, slender fingers stopping short close to her jaw – her left hand, not her right. If she were able, if she would allow herself to _touch_ she would tip her head back, but it would be unnecessary. Angela was already attuned, her eyes wide and defiant as she met her assertive gaze.

A frightened, cornered animal—

But far more beautiful than that.

Finally, Moira ditches the preamble.

"When they all leave you—"

She sounds so sure.

"When they don't need you anymore—"

But then, that's already happened.

"When there's nowhere left for you to go—"

Overwatch fell, and now she's left to wander, a valkyrie of the never-ending battlefield.

Alone.

Moira's made her way closer somehow, whispering softly in her ear, a terrible siren with a promised anchor.

"I'll be waiting."

And despite all her doubts and fierce determination, Angela knows it to be true.

She will take that offer to heart, knowing exactly what it means.

Angela inhales sharply, choking back against despair, her eyelids pressed together tightly as she raises a solitary hand to her face to better hide it, willing her greatest desire and nightmare away, fighting against everything long since buried.

She hates—

She hates that there's a part of her that still loves her. 

The hallway was empty again, a place for fresh air and overwhelmed emotion in the quiet dark, and Moira was gone.


End file.
